Like this:

Words, that strange expression attributed to groupings of letters, conjured, gathered, held, to form our ideas, each word lofted and championed as only of its own essence, yet tainted, turned and taunted by our own attachment.

Letters of communication, gathered under the lie of non affiliation, acclaimed as singular of meaning and affect, yet practised with the bluntness of a carving knife and the lightness of custard.

We the arbitrators uphold the system, deny the invasion and post the intricate.

What is it to live with love?
To combine, to commit,
to converge, and to see.
To understand you can’t change that,
which is already,
so definitely free.
To know that fault lies only,
with ones little idea
called me.

To ponder for just a moment, the unknowable,
and then fully, let go.
To awake from slumber, not by words,
but by action, not show.

To approach the day with an expectant pledge.
To force that which is unmovable over the edge
with an unstoppable, undeniable force.
To realise it’s not you,
but the invisible,
God source.

To understand that to mend could only mean, something is broke
To laugh at the image and discard it
and remove
that illusory, human cloak.